


white wedding

by hellstrider



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy is hopeless, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, He loves Steve more than anything, Lord, M/M, Proposals, SUCH FLUFF, Smut, These idiots hurt me, hangovers, soft, soft boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: If Billy has to hearone more fucking thingaboutNancy fucking Wheeler’swedding dress, he mightlose it,
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 18
Kudos: 401





	white wedding

**Author's Note:**

> another tumblr fic
> 
> soft boys,

If Billy has to hear _one more fucking thing_ about _Nancy fucking Wheeler’s_ wedding dress, he might _lose it,_

“And there’s like, laces, down the back, like a _princess dress,_ ” Max rambles, and Billy’s on his third cigarette, and his coffee’s gone cold in the chipped mug on the cracking diner table, and across from him, Max has _barely_ touched her sandwich because she _won’t stop talking_ about _Nancy fucking Wheeler’s_ fucking _wedding dress,  
_

“Uh-huh,” he says, blowing out a mouthful of smoke, and his lungs burn,

“And she’s gonna have lilies in her hair, the - the ones that look like _paper_ , they’re, what’re they _called,”_

“Calla lilies,” Billy supplies, crushing the cherry of his cigarette in the ashtray between them, and Max lights up,

“Yeah, those! C’mon, Billy, it’s _exciting,_ weddings are _exciting,_ ”

“Mhm,” Billy mutters noncommittally, and he’s _hungover,_ hungover as _fuck_ , but he never misses lunch with Max, hasn’t in _months_ , because she likes to check in and they’ve gotten _close_ , over the years,

“You know,” she says then, and her voice gets quiet, soft, and Billy digs for another fucking cigarette, “you could - you could have this kinda thing, _too,_ ”

 _“Yeah,_ ” he bites out, and his head _hurts_ and his chest _hurts_ and everything just - _hurts,_

But he pays for the sandwich Max has to take to go, hooks an arm around her neck to give her a makeshift hug before they part ways, manages to ruffle her hair, and Max laughs, pokes at his ribs, and then he’s heading for his Camaro and she’s bouncing towards her little yellow bug,

 _“Weddings_ ,” Billy mutters, shaking his head, and he turns the radio up loud, so loud his bones shake, “fuckin’ _hate_ weddings,”

And he _does_ , because guess who can’t fucking have _anything_ like what Nancy fucking Wheeler gets, with her princess dress and her fucking _calla lilies_ , and Billy rubs his brow as he pulls out of the diner’s parking lot to whip through Hawkins, hurtling back towards his shitty little apartment,

And Billy’s still grumbling when he shoves outta the car outside the ancient complex, and the wind is cold, _cold,_ and who the fuck has a wedding in _winter?_ Jesus, this entire thing is just - _irritating_ , irritating, and if Billy hears one more _fucking thing_ about the _goddamn dress -_

The apartment’s dark when he slips inside, lights all off, and Billy kicks off his boots, heads for the fridge and digs out a beer; he cracks it open on the counter, shitty and peeling, because every apartment in Hawkins is shitty and peeling, and it smells like coffee and lemon cleaner and cinnamon,

And he shrugs outta his jacket, tosses it over the back of the sagging couch and heads for the bedroom, because he’s _hungover_ and he just wants the beer and some _goddamn sleep_ , wants to just, shut it all _out,_

And the bedroom is dark, _dark_ , smells like sleep-sweat and warmth, like residual cologne, sprayed too often, like the coffee still on the nightstand, untouched, and Billy steps outta his jeans, strips outta his t-shirt and sets his beer on the nightstand beside the untouched coffee, groans as he rolls onto the mattress,

“Oh my God, you’re _finally back,”_

A head of absolutely _wild_ brown hair appears from under the comforter, and Steve looks about as good as Billy feels, shadows under his eyes and skin a little pallid; Billy holds out an arm and Steve presses his brow to his bare chest, moans like he’s about to vomit out his soul,

“I’m _never drinking again_ , ever,” Steve mutters against Billy’s chest, “ _ever_ , in my life, _forever_ , I’m dying, Billy, I’m _dying,”_

Billy snorts, head pounding, and Steve squirms up to bury his face against his neck, and a heady waft of sweat-booze-cum hits Billy square in the face,

“Have you heard from Byers?” Billy asks, “poor fucker might just actually be dead,”

“Nance woulda killed us by now,” Steve mumbles, hot breaths gusting over Billy’s neck, and Billy grunts when Steve accidentally presses down on his gut as he tries to get as close as humanly possible, “how’s Max?”

“Good,” Billy murmurs, and he’s _so fucking tired,_ and he’s only twenty-five but _fuck,_ staying up past three in the morning really - just, does a number on him, now, “apparently, Bachelorette parties are tamer,”

Steve says something, something right against Billy’s neck, and Billy laughs, and it hurts his head,

“What, baby?”

“I said,” Steve says, through a mouthful of golden curls, “they had a male stripper,”

“We shoulda gone to that one,”

Steve’s eyes narrow, and Billy grins, moves to nuzzle under his chin, and he hurts everywhere but he pulls Steve as close as he can, because this is the only way he’s gonna make it outta this hangover alive, through aggressive, overheated cuddling, so he hauls Steve on top of him, 

“I’m so excited for this wedding. I dunno if I’ve ever seen Jonathan smile this much, _ever_ ,” Steve says, going limp, draped over Billy like a weighted blanket, and Billy brushes a hand through his hair, doesn’t say _Byers, like me, is still trying to work out how he bagged who he’s banging,_

“It’s gonna be _great,”_ Steve sighs, and Billy nips at his jaw, 

“I’m so ready for this wedding to be _over,”_

“Don’t be mean,”

“I’m _not!”_

“Shhh,” Steve groans, pressing his face to the crook of Billy’s neck, “no shouting, head hurty,”

“You’re such a baby,”

“I’ll kick your _ass_ , Hargrove,” 

And Billy’s chest furls with a glowing, _impossible_ fondness, and he kisses Steve’s sweaty cheek,

Says,

“I know, Cherry-bomb, I know you will,”

And the only good part of this _fucking wedding_ will be _Steve_ , as far as Billy’s concerned - but he’s like that with _most_ things in life, if he’s being truly honest; they’ll at least get a dance in, and he’ll have sore toes but it’s always worth it, dancing with Steve, and he just, he wishes - he _wishes -_

“You’re _pouting_ ,” Steve says, propped up on his forearms on Billy’s chest, “why’re you pouting,”

And,

“I would marry you _tomorrow,_ ” Billy says then, and Steve’s eyes go _big_ , vulnerable, and his ears go _pink_ , and Billy thumbs over his bottom lip, “would marry you tonight, _right fuckin’ now,_ if I could,”

And then - and then Steve’s eyes get all dewy, _misty_ , and he leans in to kiss Billy, tasting like tequila and morning breath, and Billy curls a hand into his hair, drags him close, greedy palm over his bare ass,

“Wouldn’t need any of this bullshit,” Billy murmurs, “not the fuckin’ flowers, the dress, the fuckin’, caterers - just you, just me,”

And he rolls over Steve then, presses him back to the bed, _their_ bed, and they’ve been in this shitty, peeling apartment for _three years_ , and it’s shitty and peeling but fuck, it’s _theirs,_ and Steve laughs wetly, 

“Fuck it, then,” Steve says, and Billy’s heart thunders, and he forgets _all_ about the hangover when Steve threads his fingers through the golden chain around his neck, “marry me, _right here_ , right now,”

And Billy’s chest _aches_ and Steve looks _so fucking beautiful_ with the imprint of his pillow burnt onto his cheek and his hair just, a fucking _mess,_ and Billy sweeps in, kisses him, slow, _deep_ , aching, and Steve slides his arms around his shoulders, thighs framing his hips,

“You sure, Stevie?” and Billy ghosts his lips over Steve’s jaw, and he really - _doesn’t feel_ the hangover anymore, because he’s getting _hard_ as heat _sweeps_ through him, _possessive_ , love-tainted, and Steve _laughs_ when Billy nuzzles at his ear,

“Do you,” Steve says then, grandly, “ _William Henry Hargrove,_ ”

“Oh, _Jesus,_ don’t ever call me that,”

“Take me,”

“About to,”

“ _Steven Bishop Harrington_ ,”

“I still can’t believe that’s your middle name, Cherry-bomb,”

“Shut up, I’m _serious_ ,” Steve whines, and Billy scratches gently up his ribs until Steve starts to _squirm,_ starts to giggle when Billy scrunches a hand over his belly, “Billy, Billy - _Billy_! Stop, I’m - _serious,”_

“No take-backs, Stevie,” Billy warns, even though it’s _stupid_ to say it, because they’ve been together almost _eight years_ , have nearly died for each other more times than Billy can count, 

And Steve has a scar on his stomach from taking a bullet for Billy when some Russian agents caught them sneaking into a lab far out in the corn fields, and Billy has claw-marks down his back from getting between Steve and a demogorgon, and they’ve been a forever kinda thing since they were seventeen, eighteen,

And Billy tangles their fingers together and pins Steve to the mattress, heart growing two, three, four, _five_ times as big,

“ _No take-backs_ ,” Steve agrees, quiet, and his eyes look like pools of honey, and Billy kisses him, sticky-sweet, aches somewhere down _so deep,_

“Then _I do,_ Harrington,” Billy says, “now, tomorrow, _always,_ no matter how whiney you get when you’re hungover or how many times you leave the cap offa the toothpaste,”

 _“I do_ , too,” Steve croons, “even when you’re cranky for no reason or leave dishes in the _kitchen_ sink for days or leave your fucking hair in the _bathroom_ sink and become an absolute _beast_ when you’re sick,”

“Look who’s fuckin’ _talking,”_

“And _now_ you get to deal with it,” Steve says primly, _“forever,_ because you just _married me_ , asshole,”

And Billy _laughs,_ laughs and nuzzles into Steve’s neck; he rolls his hips, cock hard despite the _rampant_ hangover, and he growls, “we get a wedding night, now, right?” 

And Steve groans, huffs, “ _every night_ is a fuckin’ wedding night with us,”

But he’s already scrabbling for the lube on the nightstand, and Billy’s spine is on _fire_ , and then Steve shoves the bottle in his palm, tangles up his hand in the golden chain again, drags Billy down and murmurs, “gotta make it _official,_ though, don’t we?” right in his ear, and Billy swears, swears and ducks in to catch the laugh that tumbles offa Steve’s tongue,

And Billy just assumes they leave the entire thing in the bedroom, because they’ve been together for eight years and it’s a forever kinda thing anyway, but then Steve’s late home one day, _really late,_ and Billy’s about to get into the Camaro and rip Hawkins apart to find him when Steve comes clattering through the front door, looking _harried,_

 _“Holy shit_ , baby,” Billy all but snarls, and he drops his keys, crowds Steve against the front door, sticks his hands up under Steve’s sweater to check for wounds, sore spots, _anything,_

“I’m fine, I’m _fine_ ,” Steve insists, clutching at Billy’s shoulders, and Billy huffs, still a little shaky, and,

“I’m so sorry,” Steve’s babbling, as Billy tries to rein his heartbeat in, “the jeweler was late, and they got all backed up, and I got stuck in traffic outta Indianapolis,”

“The _fuck_ were you doing there?” Billy demands, “what _jeweler?_ ”

And Steve grins, jaunty and _nervous_ , and _then he’s -_

“The _fuck,”_ Billy says again, brain short-circuiting, because Steve’s down on one knee and _then there’s_ \- a _box,_ and then there’s a _ring,_ and it’s some kinda sleek, dark silver metal, and there’s tendrils of ivy carved into the surface, and a thick, fat black diamond winks up at Billy,

“It’s from a meteorite,” Steve says, and Billy can’t _fucking breathe_ , “the, the metal, it’s -”

“You got me a _ring,_ ” Billy says slowly, “from a _meteorite,_ ”

“Well, _yeah,”_ and it fits, fits like a glove on Billy’s left ring finger, “you’re my - my _husband_ , so, y’know, gotta have the - the _ring,”_

And it’s like someone has shoved their fist through his chest, and Billy looks at the ring, looks at the box, then at Steve, doe-eyed and his forever kinda thing, and then it just - 

It just makes sense, to drag Steve up, haul him into his arms, and Billy presses him against the door, Steve’s legs around his waist, and the box clatters to the ground but the ring’s still on Billy’s finger, and Steve’s shaking, a little, and so is Billy, and they’ve only had a handful of kisses so desperate it feels like he’s being ripped apart, but this - this is one of ‘em,

“The fuck did I _do_ , deservin’ _you?_ ” Billy asks, and Steve groans, and there’s - yeah, _tears,_ real tears, and he can’t _breathe_ except for when he’s got his mouth on Steve’s, when he’s stealing the air outta him, “the _fuck -”_

“Didn’t need to _do_ anything, just - _got_ me, always had me,”

 _“Fuck,”_

And they don’t make it to the bedroom, not even to the couch; Billy drags Steve between his legs on the floor, and there’s always lube in weird places in their apartment, like tucked away in the drawer in the little table beside the sofa, 

And Steve takes his _fuckin’ time_ , works Billy open on his fingers until he’s sweating, until he’s begging, and it’s the kinda fuck they usually have after one or both of them toe too close to death, the kinda shit that has Billy’s eyes burning and his stomach in his chest and his heart budging into Steve’s, 

Because there’s a ring on Billy’s finger that came from a meteorite and he doesn’t give a fuck what’s on paper and what’s not, because he’s been Steve Harrington’s since he was seventeen and so fucking angry, and Steve made him wanna be gentle, and so he was, until he had to fight for what was his,

And he’ll always fight for it, and so will Steve, and he’s got Steve’s heart beating alongside his own and Steve’s ring on his hand and after, _after,_ they curl up on the couch and watch some inane shit Billy doesn’t pay attention to, because he’s got Steve in his arms, Steve’s ring on his finger, and he can’t stop looking at it, as they split the bottle of champagne that Steve brought from the city,

And he fucking _hates_ weddings, hates every wedding but _this one_ ,

And when Steve, swirling his coffee mug full of champagne as the sun sets and everything starts to go dewy in twilight, murmurs, “y’know, Nance’s dress really is fucking amazing, baby, I gotta say,” Billy doesn’t even _fucking mind,_


End file.
